The Secret Confessions of a Horny House Wife

Have you ever heard that a fruit tree, just before it dies, will suddenly bear a rich crop of fruit?  It’s as though on a cellular level, the tree understands that it will soon be no more, and so it produces an abundance of offspring so that at least its seed will go forth into the universe to carry on the tree’s DNA, its species, its genus, its family. 

Lately I suspect I’m less horny housewife and more dying fruit tree. 

A year ago I was a stay-at-home mom with a beautiful little boy.  All of my friends had children the same age as my son, and about half had second babies.  I knew for sure I wanted another child, but something held me back from pursuing that with my husband.  Some pragmatic, level-headed voice (We’ll name her Truth) said, “You don’t again want to go through the effort and isolation of pregnancy and being the mother of a new baby without a supportive, loving partner.”

It was then that Truth (she happened to be naked and standing under harsh florescent lights that revealed every pimple, hair follicle, and tiny line around her eyes) looked me squarely in the face and said, “You are not going to get what you really want, sweetie.  Make due.”

You cant’ always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might get what you need. 

So I accepted that life is short and that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my time on earth waiting for love, passion, sex, and attention from a man who was never going to give my those things.  I went looking for love, and grasped at whatever I could get my ravenous, grabby hands on: tall, muscular handsome bodies; huge penises and little ones; friendships and flirtations; attention and praise; oral, vaginal, and anal; and, here and there, in stops and starts, Love. 

As you know, of course, I pursued the sex like a demon out of hell.  Why was I (am I) so very very horny?  Why, for that matter, are women in their mid-thirties so very very horny?  It is because we are all of us dying fruit trees.  Of course. 

Our bodies are urging: launch your seed into the universe.  Dispatch it post haste.  Don’t delay.  Find a man.  Ready your loins for him.  Welcome him with open lips.  And that is what I have done.

There’s a little pink pill I swallow every single day which thwarts all of my body’s earnest, urgent plans, but it doesn’t thwart the urge.  It doesn’t stop the wetness.  It doesn’t satisfy the hunger.  I am so very very hungry. 

♥♥♥

This morning as I was driving to work, my head spinning with dying trees and ripening fruit, a song that Valentine Dave had sent me suddenly began playing on my iPod.  (”Shuffle Songs” may be the death of me…)  Dave loved me so much.  He worshipped me.  No one before or since him has loved me so completely or so sweetly or so completely sweetly.  Why wasn’t he enough for me?  Why didn’t I leap into his arms, kiss him passionately (he was a great kisser), and say “Yes, I’ll love you and be with you forever!”  That was what he wanted.  Why didn’t I?

Another man I knew years ago just got in touch with me on Facebook.  He made it clear that, all those years ago when we knew each other, he was charmed by me.  We hadn’t talked in about twelve years (and we barely  knew each other then), yet he remembered me and has thought about me all this time and went out of his way to find me.  He felt it was risky to contact me, yet he took the chance.  He likes me and I like him, yet I won’t pursue anything.  Why not?  He is sweet.  He is smart.  He is thoughtful and sensitive.  He wants me and respects me and would handle my heart with great care.  And there you have his excluding sin. 

I’m just beginning to realize the connection between my sexual fetishes and my personal relationship choices.  All of this past year’s delicious spanking, humiliation, and bondage has been a reflection of an entire adult life lived with men who mostly ignored, neglected, or merely tolerated me.  

But why?  I’m considered a catch.  Why, time and time again, do I turn my back on men who adore  and bore me in order to follow after the fascinating assholes?  The sporadic surfers who only want me to be a surfboard in their closets, in case they wake up one morning with a fleeting yen for my sand, my salt, and my crashing waves. 

♥♥♥

I do it all to myself, of course.  I make these choices and pursue these men.  Maybe I’m not a dying fruit tree, after all, so much as a suicidal one. 

Again, I am concluding that this life of a marriage without substance and extramarital relationships without stability cannot be a long-term solution for me.  It’s scary to say it, but I want love.  I want friendship.  I want hot, nasty sex as well as hushed, safe, warm holding.  I have no idea where it will come from, or if it ever will come, but I’m giving myself permission to want it. 

I don’t want my fruit to wind up rotting, juicy and rancid, on the ground.  Someone pick my crop.  Sample my fruit.  Taste my sweetness. 

♥, HH 

I wrote this post this morning and felt depressed all day.  It was hours later I remembered that today is my wedding anniversary.